Tillie Shakes
by yorozuyagaren
Summary: Whistler finds a girl in an alley, and ends up bringing her home. Not your average romance, possibly a sign of the apocalypse. Rated for Whistler's mouth. FINISHED!
1. The Girl in the Alley

Yes, that's right. Garen is writing a _romance_. This may or may not be a sign of the apocalypse, depending on how the story comes out. Either way, it should be interesting.

The idea for the story came, incidentally, during First Aid class when we were learning about how to deal with someone having a seizure.

* * *

"O gu sunndach mi air m'astar  
Falbh gu siubhlach le bheag airtneul  
Dol a chomhrag ri Bonaparte  
'Se bha bagairt air ri Geors" 

With a dollar in change in his pocket and a song on his lips, Whistler gaily trotted down a narrow street, paying no mind to the squalor around him except to occasionally touch his famous green cap at the beggars lingering in doorways. He liked to think that he was singing for them, and that his song-- though horribly violent and completely in Gaelic-- would infect those around him with some of his happiness at the beautiful spring day.

As he turned into an alleyway near the Brooklyn Lodging House, something caught his eye. It was the faded blue frock of a girl, perhaps fifteen or so, with bright blond hair escaping in wisps from the kerchief on her head. She was coughing violently, and Whistler immediately felt a wave of pity. Consumption most likely, that killer of the poor. Whistler had seen its effects often in his travels. The girl's predicament put a temporary damper on his enthusiasm as he felt around in his pocket for his second-best handkerchief.

"Here," he said, offering her the scrap of greyish linen.

"Thank you," she whispered hoarsely. She wiped her nose with it. "It's the flower dust in the air, you know. Makes me sick."

"You've allergies?" Whistler asked, kneeling so he was face to face with her. She nodded. Well, at least it wasn't consumption. "Keep the handkerchief. I've another one."

"Thank you," she said again. She made an odd noise in her throat, her expression turning to one of alarm. Whistler glanced behind him. Nothing out of the ordinary. When he looked back at the girl, she had curled up in a ball and was shaking as if she would fall to pieces.

Whistler yelped with surprise and grabbed her arm, getting a tightly clenched fist in the eye for his trouble. The girl flailed, hitting her head against the brick wall she'd been leaning against. There was already blood staining the kerchief on her head.

"Are you alright?" Whistler asked. The girl didn't answer. Meanwhile, he had gotten his waistcoat off and wedged it between her head and the wall.

After a minute or so, the girl's shaking subsided. She lay very still for a moment, then slowly opened her eyes.

"Are you alright?" Whistler asked again. Her eyes focused and she tried to sit up. "Don't rush, your head's a bit of a mess."

The girl promptly burst into tears.

"Easy, easy, I'm not going anywhere. What happened?"

The girl wiped her nose on her sleeve. "I -hic- have--_spells_," she said. "The nuns at the orphanage said -hic- that God was punishing me, so I'd never be able to -hic- marry." She grabbed Whistler's shirt and buried her face in it, crying for all she was worth.

Whistler frowned. His shirt was getting wet, and the girl was obviously in no state to be wandering around in the street. Surely Murphy, the old man who ran the Lodging House, would agree to let her stay there until she felt better.


	2. Tillie and Spot

So, Chapter 2 of this insanity. Here we meet Spot, who is highly confused, plus we find out the girl's name, and a bit more about her upbringing. Oh, and Stress. I am honoured by your review. She does not, however, have consumption. Whistler thought she did, but it turned out to just be allergies.

* * *

Chapter 2 

"So, you feelin' any better?" Whistler asked.

"Yes, thank you," the girl said. Her head was bandaged, and her formerly bloodstained kerchief was draped over a chair to dry.

"What's your name, anyway?"

"Mathilda Doyle," she answered. "Tillie for short. Although the nuns called me Twitchy, because of my spells." It was clear from her tone that she hadn't been fond of the nickname.

"Never did like nuns," Whistler muttered. "Bunch of holier-than-thou bitches who think they're all that."

Tillie looked absolutely horrified. "You don't mean that, do you?" she asked timidly.

" 'Course I do! And priests are drunken buggerers, and the entire Catholic Church is one big giant scam," Whistler stated. "Religion is overrated anyway." He realized that Tillie was staring at him with a mixture of horror and admiration. "No lightning bolts yet, are there?" he asked her. She shook her head dumbly.

"Y'see? I been sayin' things like that for years, and I en't been smited yet." He got up, brushing some invisible dust off his trousers. "Well, I should probably go talk to my superior, the King o' Brooklyn. He'll want to know what you're doing here."

* * *

"Alright, lemme get this straight," Spot said, his face the epitome of bewilderment. "You found a girl, and brought her here." Whistler nodded. "And she ain't a whore, _or_ a dancer at Medda's." Whistler nodded again. "You feelin' alright?" 

"Never been better," Whistler said with a grin.

"Then what's up with the girl sittin' on your bed? Why aren't you trying to get under her skirt?"

"She's—different, shall we say."

"She's not some rich broad, is she?" Spot asked. "A runaway? Never stopped you before."

Whistler shook his head. "She gets spells." Spot looked even more confused. "Spells, y'know? She falls down and starts shakin' all over, and then she flips out afterwards. It's a disease. Epel-something."

"So?"

"Dunno. Wouldn't seem right, somehow, to try and get under her skirt." He grinned ruefully. "That and she's just so damn innocent. I like girls with a little experience."

"So why'd you bring her here?"

"Well, I couldn't jus' leave her there, could I? She's not used to the streets, lived in an orphanage till just last week. They kicked her out, sayin' she was old enough to support herself. 'F I left her in that alley, she'd be dead or raped by next Wednesday."

"Not your look-out, is it? Tons of homeless girls in New York. This is the first one you brought home without shaggin' her."

Whistler smiled. "Talk to her sometime. I think y'might be surprised." He headed toward the door. "I'm headin' to the druggist. Out of witch hazel. Need anythin'?"

"If y'see any laudanum jumpin' out at you, I been havin' some trouble sleeping. I'll pay you back."

"Got it."

* * *

A/N: Laudanum, by the way, is now illegal, as it contains opium. It wasn't then, though, and it was used for pain relief and as a sleeping aid, among other things. Witch hazel is an antiseptic, used to treat acne and to clean small wounds. It's probably what Whistler used on Tillie's head, which is why he's going out to get more. 


	3. Laudanum Anyone?

Woo, long one. Lots of dialogue, too. Poor Spot, doesn't know what he's getting himself into.

* * *

Chapter 3

" 'Talk to her sometime', he says," Spot muttered as he climbed the stairs. "A girl's a girl. You shag 'em and forget 'em. Dunno what Wiss thinks he's talkin' about, him of all people. Hell, he's had more girls than I have."

He shoved the door of the bunkroom open, startling the girl on Whistler's bed near the window.

"I'm sorry!" she cried. "That redheaded boy said I could sit here—"

"Who, Wiss?" Spot said carelessly. "Take it from me, doll. Don't believe a word he says. He's nuttier than a fruitcake."

She visibly relaxed, even smiled a bit. "Does that mean that the Church isn't really a scam, then? He said some very disturbing things about it."

"He been blaspheming again? Told you he's nuts," Spot pointed out. He thought a moment. "But he's right. It is a scam."

The girl looked like she might cry.

"Aw, quit it. I hate it when people blubber." He hastily changed the subject. "What's up with these spell-things you have?"

"Wiss told you?"

Spot grunted an affirmative. "Don't call him 'Wiss'. He hates it. His name's really Whistler." He wondered why he was offering her information. It wasn't for her safety—Whistler didn't hit girls. And what did Spot care for her safety, anyway, even if he did? "What's your name?"

"Tillie."

"Well, I'm Spot Conlon. The King o' Brooklyn."

Tillie seemed puzzled. "There's a king of Brooklyn?"

Spot frowned. Was she questioning his power? "Yeah, and I'm it."

"Your Majesty," she said, bowing her head.

"Where the hell are you from, that you never heard o' Spot Conlon?"

"The orphanage. My parents abandoned me there when I was four, when I started having spells. The nuns there raised me." She said it almost lifelessly, as if reciting from memory. "They told me that my spells were sent from God as a punishment, and that I had to work extra hard to be good so I wouldn't go to Hell."

"That's gotta be the screwiest thing I ever heard. God's dead, so how can he be sendin' punishments? You seem like a nice enough broad to me, if a little dim."

"Really?" Apparently Tillie hadn't heard the part about her being dim. Her grey eyes shone at what she saw as a compliment.

"Yeah, sure." Anything to shut her up. Her naiveté was getting on his nerves, and he found it extremely unsettling. Not to mention her eyes—

No. The Great Spot Conlon did not waste time thinking about eyes, especially when they belonged to pretty-but-silly girls. _Especially_.

"So, can I stay?" Tillie asked.

Stay? Here? In a lodginghouse with twenty-something teenage boys, one of whom was known for his habit of shagging anything in a skirt?

"You sure you want to?" She nodded, eyes wide and innocent. She obviously had no idea of the dangers of the situation.

"Yeah, sure," Spot said. " 'F you want to. I'll see if Old Man Murphy can fix you up a bed in the spare room."

Her face broke into a smile that would melt the heart of a brick wall. Spot found his own beating rather quickly, especially when she got up and threw her arms around his waist.

"Oh, thank you!" she cried, hugging him. Her hair was right under Spot's nose. He tried not to sneeze.

"Uh—Anytime, doll."

" 'M I interruptin' somethin'?" came a voice from the doorway. Spot looked up to see Whistler leaning against the doorjam, holding a paper package easily in one hand and grinning widely. "Heya, Spot. You still gonna need that laudanum? If not, I got some guy over in Chinatown who'll gimme a lot for it."

Spot looked down at Tillie, who was still latched onto him. "Geddoffame," he ordered. Tillie shrank away and sat back down on the bed, terrified.

"Hey, don't scare the girl, Spot," Whistler said. "She's jus' bein' friendly. Right, Tillie?" Tillie nodded. "See? Calm down. She probably don't even realize what she did." He turned to Tillie. "Spot here don't like people touchin' him. Reminds him of his mother."

"You can just shut up about my mother, Wiss," Spot muttered. "In fact, you can just shut up in general."


	4. Realizations

Been a while, hasn't it? Indeed it has. I blame writer's block and too many other story ideas.

* * *

Chapter 4

The Brooklyn newsies were quick to accept a girl into their lodginghouse, most of them thinking that she'd be an easy and convenient lay. Then they met Tillie and learned that Whistler had appointed himself her protector, and quickly shed the idea of sleeping with her in favour of treating her like a younger sister in the case of the older boys, and an older sister in the case of those under twelve. A few boys resented having a girl around who wasn't handing out sexual favours, but they were outnumbered by the brotherly types and mostly afraid of Whistler anyway.

Tillie made herself useful, of course. She was too shy to sell papers, but under Whistler's guidance, she set up a business patching and mending the boys' clothing to pay for her room and board. Spot couldn't help notice that she seemed to be getting less pale and thin, and consequently even prettier.

"No," he told himself sternly. "She's a half-wit. Pretty, but no brains."

Whistler wasn't helping. "She's a good kid," he'd say. "Bright as a penny, even if she's got no sense. Didja see the lame squirrel she brought home?" He shook his head. "She needs a guy with a good head on him. Someone like you or me, Spot."

_Someone like you or me._ The words rang in Spot's head as he went about his business. Could it be that Whistler was falling for Tillie? It certainly looked that way, what with Wiss protecting her and setting her up in business and all. And Tillie practically worshipped the guy. He wasn't the type to not notice when people liked him.

The thought of Whistler being with Tillie made Spot very angry for some reason. It made his teeth clench and his stomach flop around like a landed fish. His stomach had been doing that a lot lately, mostly when Tillie was around or involved. Spot's solution had been to eat less and drink more laudanum.

"Damn you, Wiss," he muttered. "Damn you."

Whistler looked up from where he'd been helping Tillie make the beds in the bunkroom. "You say somethin', Spot?" he asked innocently.

"Make yourself useful and go get another bottle of laudanum. I got a stomachache."

Whistler excused himself from the giggling Tillie and headed down the stairs. Spot motioned for Tillie to come closer.

"You been actin' awfully fond a' Wiss," he accused.

"Well, he's a very nice young man," Tillie said earnestly. "He's kind and helpful, and he doesn't mind that I get spells. And he's good-looking." She smiled. "I think I could fall in love with him."

Spot gritted his teeth. If Tillie didn't stop talking about Whistler, Spot was sure that he'd go out and kill the guy.

"Don't fall in love with him," he said firmly. "Don't you dare. He's a total lunatic and he's lousy with women."

Tillie looked hurt. Then realization dawned. "Your Highness?" she said. "Are you jealous of Whistler because I like him?"

"No! A' course not!" Spot shouted. "I hate his guts! Don't you dare fall in love with him, or—or—I'll kill ya both!"

Tillie nodded slowly, then wandered into her room and closed the door. Spot heard a click as she turned the key.

"Dammit," Spot muttered. "I hate women."

* * *

Meanwhile, Tillie flopped onto the cot in the spare room to do some thinking.

Spot liked her. She didn't know how she hadn't noticed sooner, but there it was, clear as day. He was moody and cross and kept giving Whistler death glares whenever he was near her. He was behaving exactly like the boys did in the romance novels that Sister Mary was always reading when she thought no one was looking.

But then there was Whistler. Tillie knew she could very well be in love with Whistler. If he were taller, and his hair were dark and slicked back, and his nose didn't turn up so much, and his clothes weren't so shabby and odd, he would be exactly like one of the dashing knights who swept girls off their feet in the stories. As it was, Tillie felt a little lightheaded when he was nearby.

But then there was Spot. Spot wasn't as funny and nice as Whistler, but there was something strong and tough and protective about him. Tillie had the feeling that if there was a girl that Spot liked, there was nothing that would get in his way of being with her. If Whistler was a knight, Spot was a king, majestic and terrible.

She grinned at the thought. Of course Spot was a king. He was the king of Brooklyn. And Whistler was one of his knights.

"I love them both," she realized. "I love them both."


	5. Swimming Spell

I'm just on a roll, aren't I? I figure I'll finish this one up, and then get cracking on some of the other ones.

* * *

Chapter 5

"Hey Tillie, wanna come swimming?"

Tillie frowned, jabbing her needle into the sock she was darning. Skipper looked at her pleadingly.

"I can't swim," she said.

"You don't have to," the younger boy said. "You can just wade in a bit. C'mon, it's so hot out, you gotta be dying."

"I don't have a bathing suit."

"That's okay, neither do we. We just swim in our underwear."

Tillie thought hard, grasping for more excuses. "I—

"I guess so."

The East River wasn't the cleanest body of water in the world, but nothing in New York was. Skipper and his friends wriggled out of shoes, socks, trousers, and shirts in record time and jumped off the pier, laughing. Tillie glanced out at the shallow water beyond the dock and slowly began unbuttoning her shoes.

"C'mon, Tillie!" Skipper yelled.

The shoes came off, followed by the thick black stockings. Tillie took off her kerchief and undid the buttons on her dress. The blue frock slid off her bare arms, leaving her wearing a camisole and a petticoat. Suddenly a wave of dirty water came splashing over her, propelled by Skipper. Tillie shrieked, then grinned evilly as she slid off the pier and started splashing Skipper back. The sun glinted off the water droplets, making her feel dizzy.

Then she felt it. The niggling at the back of her mind, the slight nauseous feeling. Her muscles locked and she fell, falling into darkness.

* * *

Skipper panicked as Tillie started to twitch violently. He'd heard about her spells, but he hadn't thought that it would happen like this.

"Knicknack!" he yelled. "Go get Spot! Fast!"

Knicknack hauled himself out of the water and took off, sopping wet and half-naked.

Skipper tried to keep Tillie's head above water so she wouldn't drown, but she was shaking so hard that he didn't want to get too close. He was scared, so scared that he let go of her. She flopped face first in the water. Skipper screamed.

Finally Spot arrived, and the three boys managed to get Tillie onto the pier. She was unconscious, and she wasn't breathing.

"What the hell were you thinking?" Spot demanded. Skipper didn't reply as Spot pumped Tillie's chest to get the water out of her lungs. She choked, spit out a fountain of water, and started to cry. Spot picked her up and shook her.

"Don't you scare me like that!" he shouted.

"Spot—" she whispered.

"Don't you scare me like that," Spot repeated, this time quieter, almost tenderly. He held her against his chest, his eyes beginning to water. They stayed that way, huddled together on the pier, her in her soaked underwear, both of them crying.

* * *

Not far away, Whistler peered at the scene from behind some crates. He smiled sadly, then slipped away.

Skipper nudged Knicknack. "Hey, did you just see Whistler over there?"

"Nah, why?"

"I thought I saw him just now."

"Don't be stupid. If he'd been there, he'd have come and helped when Tillie had her spell."

"Yeah, that's what I was thinkin'," Skipper said, frowning.


	6. Answers

I have no idea how this will be taken. I fear I might be sticking my neck out, but I'm posting it anyway. This is not a spur of the moment ending. I've been planning this since the beginning. Well, enough stalling.

* * *

Chapter 6

Spot half-carried Tillie back to the Lodging House. He didn't want to let her out of his reach, just in case.

"Well, it's about bloody time," Old Man Murphy drawled as Spot, Tillie, Skipper, and Knicknack all crowded through the door. "The way you two was swoonin' after each other, it was enough to make ya bloody sick." He took another pull on his jug and nodded upstairs. "Whistler's up in the bunkroom. Said he wanted t'talk ta the lady."

Tillie looked to Spot for permission. He nodded grimly, then followed her up the stairs. Skipper and Knicknack meanwhile made themselves scarce.

Whistler sat on his bed, facing out the window. He turned when he heard their footsteps. "Just Tillie for now, Spot," he said quietly. "I'll talk to you later."

"Why you son-of-a—" Spot checked himself, not wanting to curse in front of Tillie. "You actually think I'll fall for that?"

Tillie put her hand on his shoulder. "Spot, it's okay. He just wants to talk."

Spot's face went through a progression of colours, from tan, to scarlet, to pasty white, then to tan again. "Fine," he said finally. "But I'll be right outside." He left, shutting the door behind him, and went to sit on the stairs.

Whistler motioned for Tillie to come closer.

"I'm sorry," she said quickly. "But I had to choose Spot. It's nothing against you, but Spot—well, he saved me." Her lower lip began to quiver. Whistler stood and held her as she cried into his shirt the way she hadn't done in weeks.

"It's okay, Tillie," he said once she'd calmed down. "I hoped you'd choose Spot."

"Why?"

Whistler sighed and sat on the nearest bed, his expression thoughtful. "I'm going to tell you a story.

"This story happened a very long time ago, in a part of Scotland called Argyll. There was a mortal girl and a fairy boy who fell in love. Innocent as they were, they thought they could be together. The mortal girl died saving the fairy boy's life, and told him that he wasn't to follow her in death. He had to live, and maybe learn to love again. But he couldn't. His heart had been broken, and he was no longer capable of love, if he ever had been in the first place. He travelled all over the world—"

Tillie touched the tear that was beginning its slow descent down Whistler's cheek. She knew.

"You were that fairy boy, weren't you?" she whispered. He nodded. "I'm sorry," she said.

"No, _I'm_ sorry," Whistler interrupted. "I tricked you into thinking I was human, didn't I?"

"Does Spot know?"

"No, at least I don't think he does. Promise you won't tell him? I think it'd be more than he can handle."

Tillie laughed. "Most likely.

"I won't tell."

Whistler stood up and stretched, cracking his back. "Well, that was interesting," he said. "You should go out and make sure Spot knows you're okay. He'll be freaking out about now."

Tillie nodded, and turned to go.

"Before I leave," she said. "What was her name?"

"Maggie. Margaret Elanor Campbell."

"And your name?"

"Garen Ruy."

"Maggie and Garen," she said. "It sounds like something out of a story."

Whistler burst out laughing, falling backwards onto the bed. "Of course it does! It _is_ out of a story!"

"Then it's not true?"

"I didn't say that, now did I?"

"But—"

"In time, you will learn," Whistler said. "That just because something is a story doesn't mean it isn't true."


End file.
